


Subway Serial Killer

by annagarny



Category: Castle, Sherlock (TV)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-01-30
Updated: 2012-02-12
Packaged: 2017-10-30 08:31:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/329817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annagarny/pseuds/annagarny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It won't take much, just a transcontinental serial killer and Mycroft's interference, to get Sherlock and his blogger to Manhattan. Then again, Mycroft loves to interfere.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1

>>  
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“What is that drivel that you’re reading, now?” Sherlock demanded, leaning over John’s shoulder like he had many times, usually to criticize something John was putting into his blog, or to steal a biscuit (against his will, Sherlock had put on three pounds since John had moved into Baker St, he blamed the doctor for always having sweet things around).  
“It’s a murder mystery.”  
“Don’t we get enough of those?”  
“I like to read about other murder mysteries, sometimes.”  
“You usually read those ridiculous romance novels.”  
“No, Sarah liked them so I tried a few.”  
“You liked them, you bought three.”  
“And they’ve since been lost in the deluge that is your supposedly organized chaos. Don’t think I didn’t see you sneaking that one into your room.”  
“So, what’s this one about?” Sherlock asked, pointedly ignoring John’s observation of his own reading habits.  
“A New York homicide detective with a journalist shadowing her, it isn’t half bad, though.”  
“Bet I can pick the killer before you do.”  
“Sherlock, half the time you can pick the killer before the end of the second chapter.”  
"That depends entirely on the writer, if they haven't introduced the killer by the second chapter I can hardly identify him by then, can I?"  
"That never stops you. Quit hovering!"  
"I'm bored."  
"What about that serial killer?"  
"What serial killer?"  
"The one Lestrade sent you a text about, yesterday?"  
"Oh, that. Yes, well..."  
"You can't be bored of it, yet."  
"No, no... but right now I'm just waiting for his next move. There wasn't nearly enough information for me to tell what the killer was up to, not conclusively, at least."  
"So, until another person is killed, you're just going to stand there and loom over me like some kind of oversized bat?"  
"I'm not looming!"  
"You're hovering over my shoulder, Sherlock."  
"Fine." The consulting detective flung himself into his chair, opposite his blogger, and mulled, wondering where exactly John had hidden the Browning and just how much trouble he would get into if he shot another round of holes into the wall.

>>  
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>>>>>

"What on earth are you reading?"  
"It's a blog."  
"Yes, but why are you reading it on my computer?"  
"Because I left my iPad at home, and don't want to carry a man-purse. Plus, Epso changed his password and I can't get onto his computer."  
"Whose blog is it, anyway?"  
"One Dr John Watson."  
"What's so interesting about it?"  
"He's a returned army doctor who lives with a consulting detective."  
"What he hell is a consulting detective?"  
"This." Rick clicked on a link to the right on the page and another tab opened up on Detective Beckett's computer screen, a black background and blue writing, 'The Science Of Deduction' splashed across the masthead.

Kate looked at the site for a few moments, reading the introductory paragraph and barely restraining herself from rolling her eyes at the condescension practically leaping off the screen.  
"He seems like quite the charmer."  
"Well, John’s blog is much more interesting than Sherlock's site."  
"What the hell kind of name is Sherlock? And did you say that John lives with him?"  
"Apparently. From the look of the blog Watson's been living with him for at least a year."  
"How did you get onto this?"  
"One of my twitter followers recommended it."  
"Right."  
"Here, take a look. Apparently this Holmes guy solved a serial killer case the night Watson met him, but doesn’t know that the Earth goes around the sun."  
"What?"  
"I think I'd like to meet him - there's even an address on here. I'm supposed to be going to London as part of a book tour next year, I might have to call in."  
"You'd seriously go to London just to meet some anonymous blogger?"  
"He's hardly anonymous - Sherlock's been in the papers over there lately."  
“Hang on, is he the one with the deerstalker hat?”  
“That’s him. Take a look.” Castle clicked on one of the links and a picture of a dark-haired man with pale eyes, his coat collar turned up against the flash of the cameras, came up on the screen. He was indeed wearing a deerstalker cap, his head ducked. There was another man behind him, ostensibly the author of the blog, pulling a cap down over his own face, but less intent on avoiding scrutiny than the taller one apparently was.  
“Huh. Nice cheekbones. Well, if you do go to London, it might not be such a chore to join you.”  
Rick leaned back in his chair.  
“I always knew that you had a thing for cheekbones.” He grinned, hoping to emphasize his own, not to mention the dimples.  
“That and he’s only about twenty eight. Always nice to meet a handsome young man.” Beckett looked closely at the page, for a consulting detective with such an apparently impressive track record, the man looked rather young.  
Castle harrumphed at this and went to close the page, but Beckett stole the mouse from beneath his fingers and scrolled down the page, finding Dr Watson’s first entry and skimming it.  
“This actually looks pretty interesting. Get out of my chair, I’ve got a half hour before my meeting with the chief, I might just give it a read.”

 

>>  
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>>>>>

“There’s been another murder, Sherlock.”  
“What?” Sherlock barely glanced up from his book, John’s book, as it were, that he’d stolen not two minutes after the doctor had put it down, he’d found himself enthralled against his own will – this writer actually had some skill.  
“There’s been another killing, the same as the serial killings Lestrade wants you to look into.”  
“What? Why didn’t Lestrade call me, then?”  
“Because Mycroft called me, knowing that you would never answer a call from him.”  
“What the hell is Mycroft doing reporting a murder to you?” Sherlock had put the book down on his knee at the mention of his brothers’ name.  
“This one happened in New York.”  
“What? New York?”  
“Manhattan, to be exact, the NYPD are apparently on the scene, but Mycroft tells me that this body is exactly the same as the other three that have been found in various parts of London over the last few weeks.”  
“With the missing-”  
“Yes.” John interrupted. It had been horrific enough seeing those girls, naked, mutilated and abandoned in alleyways, without having to relive the sight. He closed his eyes for a moment as Sherlock steepled his fingers and thought, eventually cocking an eyebrow at his blogger.  
“Mycroft is certain that it’s the same killer?”  
“Considering that the particular details that match were never revealed to the press, he’s fairly certain, but he wants us to go and take a look.”  
“Really?”  
“Apparently Anthea will be here in a few minutes to pick us up, our flight leaves in an hour.”  
“God, I hate that pompous arse. He’s lucky that I don’t have anything else to do-”  
“And that you love American sweets.”  
Sherlock just harrumphed at that and got to his feet, the book sliding to the floor, forgotten.  
“What exactly does one pack for a spur-of-the-moment trip to one of the colonies?”  
“For a start, don’t refer to America as a colony, you’ll get shot. And it’s the middle of winter over there, too, so wrap yourself in that ridiculous coat and make sure you’ve got plenty of socks.”  
“I’m taking my violin, and my coat is not ridiculous.”  
“Yes, it is.”

>>  
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>>>>  
>>>>>

“Who called?”  
“Someone from the British Government, apparently this isn’t an isolated case – there have been three like this in London in the last two weeks.”  
“Sir, I understand, but why don’t they just let us liase with them?”  
“Whoever takes notice of these things apparently has quite a bit of pull, the case is waiting for this representative.” Gates didn’t seem happy, but then again, Beckett could rarely identify the captain’s moods very reliably. For all she knew, Gates was ecstatic that Beckett (and therefore Castle) had to cool her heels for half a day.  
“Representative?”  
“They’re sending over their own investigator, he should be here this afternoon sometime.”  
“What? Sir, with all due respect, this is my case.”  
“And the fourth killing of its’ kind, on the second continent, that we know of. Apparently MI6 is involved, they want to help.”  
“The secret service want to help?” Kate was, understandably, a little dubious.  
“Not exactly, but this guy has been assisting with the killings in London and apparently he can be of some assistance over here. It’s only a few hours, Beckett, put the case on ice and catch up with your paperwork. I’ll call you when I get word that he’s here.”


	2. Fanboy Alert

>>  
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“Did Mycroft specifically book us first-class just to make me uncomfortable?” John asked, poking his head up over the divider between the ‘seats’ he and Sherlock were occupying in the Upper Class section of the Virgin Atlantic flight that was, according to Mycroft, the easiest way to get across the Atlantic without being too overt. 

 

“It was either this or a private jet - I’d rather be a little closer to incognito.”

“Alright, but let him know, in future-”  
“Your scotch, sir.” A flight attendant had materialised at John’s elbow and was holding out a tray, upon which was a glass of amber liquid that he certainly hadn’t ordered.

“I’m sorry-”

“Just drink it, John. We’ve got another eight hours of this, you might as well enjoy it.”

“Is Mycroft going to kill us if we run up a bill?”  
“It’s already costing him close to ten grand to loan us to the NYPD, I hardly doubt that a couple of glasses of Aberfeldy will worry him unduly.”

“What? Aberfeldy?”  
“It is First Class, John. You think they’d serve swill?”  
“What are you drinking?”  
“Gin.”  
“You don’t drink.”  
“I do when I fly.”

John noted this and took a small sip of his scotch, it really was very nice, and decided to stop objecting. It wasn’t as if he was the one paying for it.

 

>>  
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“What time was their flight landing?” Castle asked for the fifth time in as many minutes. 

“Stop being a fanboy and check the screens.” Beckett told him. Her patience was growing thin. Well, that was an understatement. She’d been told that a ‘consultant’ from the British Government was being sent over, in light of the fact that there was a trans-Atlantic serial killer. A couple of hours afterwards, the phone on her desk had begun to ring and she’d spoken to a man with a clipped accent who had given her a set of instructions on how to ‘handle’ the consultant.  
  
It was during that conversation that Kate had gleaned exactly who their ‘consultant’ was, and the second Castle had gotten wind of it he’d started literally jumping around with glee.

“Sherlock Holmes! Helping us on a case! Beckett, this is- this is awesome!”

“Well, I just spoke to someone who assures me that it’s not actually that awesome.”

“Who was it?”  
“He didn’t give his name, but seemed to know that you’d be excited to see Sherlock.”

 

Beckett’s phone rang again, saving her from further conversation with Castle, and it was another British accent on the other end.

“Detective Katherine Beckett?”  
“Kate, please.  
“Oh, well, uh, Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade, Greg. Mycroft Holmes tells me that you’ve had a killing in Manhattan with some similarities to the three here in London over the last few weeks?”

“Mycroft? I thought his name was Sherlock?”

“Well, Mycroft is sending Sherlock over. Mycroft said he spoke with you a few minutes ago?”  
“Oh, that’s who it was. He never gave his name.”  
“Not surprising, he’s used to people knowing who he is. No, Mycroft is Sherlock’s brother - he’s part of the British Government, he was the one who heard about the murder in Manhattan and decided that it was related enough to send Sherlock.” 

“Right.” Beckett was taking notes on her blotter as Greg spoke, and had opened her mouth to voice her next question when Greg pre-empted her.

“I’ve worked with Sherlock for the last six years, he’s been invaluable, and has gotten significantly better since he got his new... friend... John Watson.”  
“Watson? His blogger?”  
“Assistant, blogger, roommate. John usually helps out at crime scenes. He’s an ex-army doctor and he can usually keep Sherlock in line. If you have any questions, or if you want to contact Sherlock, go through John, it’ll keep you sane.”

“Any other advice?”  
“Ever had a civilian on a crime scene?” Greg asked, fully expecting an emphatic negative.

“More often than I’d like to admit.” Kate told him, and Greg was speechless for a moment. He recovered well, though.

“Just keep in mind that Sherlock isn’t exactly a stickler for police procedures. He’ll wear gloves, and won’t move things around, much. But if he thinks you’re an idiot or not worth his time then he’s been known to steal evidence and go off on his own. He’s done that a lot less since John’s been with him, but he’s still not exactly stable.”  
“So, why do you let him help you?”  
“Because he’s brilliant. He’s the best at what he does, he’s better than just about every police officer I’ve ever worked with and if anyone can solve this case, it’s him.”  
“Okay, anything else?”  
“No matter what he does, try and resist the urge to punch him.”  
“I’ll take that under advisement.”

“Tell any male colleagues the same thing. He might not hit you back if you thump him one, but he won’t hesitate to take another bloke down. I’ve seen him do it and even though he looks like a streak of water, he’s got some strength in him.”

“Right. Thanks.”  
“Good luck, Kate - I’ve just sent you an e-mail with some things that might come in handy.”  
“I hope we won’t need it, Greg.”

 

“Who was that?” Castle asked, the second the phone was back in its’ cradle.

“Greg Lestrade.” The e-mail notification sound dinged through the speakers of Kate’s computer and, ignoring Castle’s objections and question (“Who’s Greg Lestrade?”) she opened the message, noting that it had a series of attachments. 

 

‘Det. Beckett-

 

I’ve attached the flight details for Mr Holmes and Dr Watson, they will be landing at Newark Airport at 7.05PM your time, having left here at 4 PM our time. 

Don’t concern yourself with issues of jet lag or similar, Holmes doesn’t sleep and Watson can usually keep up with him. They aren’t booked into any accommodations, without knowing your city we didn’t know where to put them up without causing transport issues, so their sleeping arrangements are at your discretion. 

 

My mobile number is at the bottom of this e-mail - call or text any time (hang the time-difference) and I’ll help where I can. I’ve also attached our reports and crime-scene photos from the other three murders. Let me know if you need anything else.

 

\-- D.I. Greg Lestrade, New Scotland Yard, London’

 

Castle was, as usual, reading over her shoulder. 

“What time does their flight land?” he checked his watch and saw that it was barely three PM - they had another three hours before they should even think of heading out to Newark - but wasn’t deterred.

“We have crime scene photos?” he asked, poking the screen over Kate’s shoulder where the attachments were slowly loading.

“Yes, we do. We also have our own crime.”  
“But-”

“Lanie has the body in the morgue. The scene is roped off and guarded by at least four uniforms. I’m downloading the reports from Scotland Yard and I promise I will print you off your very own copy if you will get off me!” Kate’s voice rose at the end of the sentence, and Rick realised that he had been leaning so far forward that his neck was on the back of Kate’s head and he was pressing into her shoulders with his chest.

“Sorry, sorry!” He backed off and threw himself back into his own chair with a huff, but Kate could see the smile emerging.

“I know, you’re excited.”  
“Sherlock Holmes, Kate! The guy is a legend!”  
“He’s a legend in the blogosphere, Castle.”  
“For now. If he solves a trans-Atlantic serial killer case then he’ll go from almost famous to famous-famous! Oh! I wonder if he’d let me base a character on him...”  
“He’s already got one guy writing out his cases and publishing them for the world to read, Castle, I hardly think he wants another fan using his likeness.”  
“Hey, I can ask.” Castle pouted slightly, then extracted his Moleskine notebook and began jotting things down as Kate got up and went to the printer, taking out the reports and stapling them together, a spare copy for Castle just as she’d promised, before issuing the crime scene photos as a print job to the high-end machine next to Gates’ office.

 

“Beckett.”

“Yes, sir?”

“What are these?” Gates had beaten her to the printer, and was holding up the scene photos from Scotland Yard, the watermark clearly visible in the corners of the images.

“D.I. Lestrade e-mailed me the reports and scene photos from the other killings. I’m sorry, Sir, I assumed he’d gone through you.”

“What made you think that, Beckett? I told you to put the case on ice until the consultant arrives.”  
“He called my desk directly, Sir, and sent the reports through while we were on the phone.”

“Uh huh. What was his name?”  
“Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade, Scotland Yard.”  
“Right, well, I’m still checking him out. I’ll return these once I’m certain he’s on the up-and-up. Meanwhile, you’ve still got that report on the last case to finish up.”

“Yes, sir.”

 

Apparently Detective Inspector Lestrade was a well-known quantity at Scotland Yard, because it was barely fifteen minutes later when Gates came by Beckett’s desk, not bothering to hide her exasperation when she noticed Castle hiding in the break room, and handed Kate the crime scene photos from London.

 

“Detective Lestrade tells me that he also sent you Mr Holmes’ itinerary?”  
“Yes, sir.”  
“Well, I hope that you don’t mind playing chauffeur to our international guest.”  
“Guests, sir.”  
“What?”  
“He’s got an assistant coming with him, a Doctor Watson.”

“Oh, really?”  
“Yes, Lestrade assures me that Watson knows how to behave on a crime scene, though.”  
“Great. Three civilians involved in a serial killer case. Just keep them all in line, Beckett, or it’ll be your ass.”  
“Can I have-”  
“Yes, you can have Ryan and Esposito to help, if you need them.”  
“Thank-you sir.”

“Just don’t let them break anything.”

 

 

So now, at seven PM, the Crown Vic left in a short-term parking space, Castle and Beckett were waiting near the arrivals lounge of the Virgin Atlantic flight that was carrying their consultant and his blogger.

 

“It’s here! Their flight just landed!” Castle shouted, and Kate had to bite her lip to stop herself from smiling. Fanboy was about right - Castle was so excited at the prospect of meeting his favourite blogger that she had been left in his dust as he ran through the airport to get to the gate, certain that they were late.

 

Beckett was just glad that Sherlock was distinctive-looking enough that she was reasonably sure she would recognise him as he exited the plane, and there, half a head taller than the blonde man at his side, there he was.

 

She grabbed Rick’s elbow as soon as she spotted him and pulled him back.

 

“Okay, Castle, just... restrain yourself. You deal with fans, too, remember? Don’t be too... much.”  
“Yeah, yeah. Dr Watson! Mr Holmes!” He shouted, and Kate cringed. 

 

So much for a civil introduction.

  



End file.
